They’re the verses
the twilight
they’re the days

they’re the seas
the saliva
the open hand

in the back-light
at noon
they’re the abyssal gestures, the uncertain pain

They’re the verbs
the secrets
the alchemy

they’re the sweet
lips
and their excess

the impulses of the gesture
where rose up
the contour of the body most perverse

They’re the voices
singular
the melodies

they’re the rigors
of the forms
most diverse

inventing themselves simply
because they prevented
an anxious possession so uncertain

They’re the syllables
intact
the utopias

the clumsy
the past
the nightmare

dreamt during
the dawn
the sweat drenching my hair

They’re the doubts, possibly the night
in the labor of unfettered writing
everything that is tactile and internal
entwines itself in the thread of dawn

Sometimes an even more thirsty gesture surges
and then the flight, the stroke of a knife
to the voracious side of reflection
when love has nothing more to say